The Case of the Bed Intruder
by A Touch of Insanity
Summary: WELLL, OBVIOUSLY, WE HAVE A RAPIST IN WESTMINSTER!/ In which there is an accidental reference to Antoine Dodson and a whole lot of conduct unbecoming of a police officer or a doctor. Gen.


**If you haven't, and are about to read this without understanding the reference, you should watch this:**

http:/ www. youtube .com /watch?v=hMtZfW2z9dw

**Other than that, I have not excuses. This is purely ridiculous.**

* * *

Sherlock bends over the body. He's silent, of course, just observing. Like he always does. I shift from foot to foot, waiting for him to call me over to analyze or offer some sort of medical advice. Instead, he's...what looks like _sniffing_ the corpse. Then, with a flourish, he steps back and looks around the room carefully. Almost dancing, the way he's examining and darting all over the place, smiling like a madman. Like he's on the verge of solving it. I can feel Lestrade's eyes on me. No doubt, he's offering a silent request to control him, but he's daft if he thinks I can do that.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaims, eyes bright, slipping around like quicksilver. "I've got it!"

"Care to enlighten us, then?" Lestrade is obviously impatient.

Sherlock looks at him, maybe a little annoyed. "I always do. Here's what happened: the assailant, not someone Ms. Scott knew, for certain, waited, laying in her bed as she finished her shower and came out here to get dressed. Then, this bed intruder grabbed the-" I start to laugh as soon as it clicks, and Sherlock stops, giving me that sort of glare that makes me wonder if Sally's right about him being capable of murder. But then Lestrade and Sally and Anderson and even the young crime scene tech whose name I never learned are snickering.

"The _bed intruder_, Sherlock?" I ask, knowing he might hate me less than the others for saying what's on all of our minds. "Did he climb in through the window?" The crime scene tech excuses himself through barely-controlled laugher, and Sally snorts.

Sherlock's eyes dart to the window, then he says, "No, he must have come in through the front door, why-"

"By any chance, is he snatching people up?"

"Obviously not," Sherlock says, his eyes narrowing. "He _killed_ her as opposed to kidnapping her-"

"Is he trying to rape anyone?" Lestrade asks innocently; he must not have been able to resist either.

"John would have to determine that, but I believe so-"

Sally carefully asks, "Should we advise people to hide their kids?"

"Hide their wives, even?" Anderson tosses in. We're all just seconds away from losing it, really.

"And, you know, hide their husbands because it seems he's raping everybody out there." Even as the words leave my mouth, I'm trying to think of something much less funny, but I let out a snicker even so.

"Shall I make a press statement telling him that he doesn't have to come and confess because we're looking for him and we're going to find him?" Sally says tightly. And that's it. I'm lost to a storm of laughter, falling over, gasping for breath. It strikes me that it's not at all proper behaviour for a crime scene, but that only makes me laugh harder. I can hear Lestrade and Sally and Anderson losing the fight against the utter hilarity of the moment, though, so I'm less embarrassed than I probably should be.

When I stand up straight, wiping tears from my face, still chuckling a little as the aftershocks run their course, Sherlock is _not amused_. In fact, it looks like he might just take off and find others more suitable to real detective work.

"Are you quite finished? I'm not sure what's made you all act like a pack of giggling schoolchildren, but I'd like to focus on the fact that we have a murderer on the loose." He looks at us each in turn, scolding us with a harsh look.

"Come on, Sherlock. A _bed intruder_? Really? Have you never seen it? With Antoine Dodson?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

I sigh. "Of course you don't. Look, first thing when we get home, I'm introducing you to Youtube." I spare a glance at Lestrade and we both grin immediately, but then he shakes it off and adopts a very professional look.

"Shall we get back to the murder?" he asks, hiding a smile by not-so-subtly rubbing his nose.

Sherlock nods, saying, "It's about time." I'd like to be able to say that I didn't burst into laughter at odd times for the rest of the day, but that would be a complete and total lie.


End file.
